


nothing old, nothing new

by augusteofarles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Time Travel, and dean jr is the only one who can stop him because of ~reasons~, i kinda went full terminator on this, someone is trying to go back in time and kill sam and dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augusteofarles/pseuds/augusteofarles
Summary: Sam Winchester dies in the early hours of a quiet Sunday morning.On the night of his wake, a man in a trench coat and the Queen of hell pay his son a visit...Chuck's old followers are more loyal than they seemed, and are not happy with the new status quo. Cue to Dean Jr's mission throughout time to save his father and uncle. And the world.(but mostly this a chance for me to have Dean Jr meet Sam and Dean throughout various times in their lives let's be real).
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Jr. (Supernatural: Carry On) & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

Sam Winchester dies in the early hours of a quiet Sunday morning. 

Dean isn’t certain how long he sits by his bedside and listens to the monotone sound of his father’s heart flatlining, but the room has shifted from a dark blue glow to bright and sunlit by the time awareness comes back to him. 

The beeping of the EKG had become a constant in the house in the last month, melding into the background along with the chirping of the birds outside the window or the sound of the air conditioner keeping the rooms hospital-cool. 

He thinks the abrupt change of the rhythm should be overtly discernible, a shock to his senses. Except that, for a long while, the only sound he can think of is the sigh of relief his father took along with his last breath. 

Dean lets go of his father’s hand, tries to think of the warmth of his last gaze rather than the coldness of his fingers. 

Emily is sniffling in the doorway, having made her way from the kitchen, holding a tray of food that won’t be eaten. She gives Dean a teary smile when he finally stands and meets her gaze. 

“I should make some calls,” he says, and stays where he is. 

Emily nods and then embraces him, cries quietly into his shoulder. Dean feels the fabric of her nurse’s scrubs on his cheek. 

Emily had entered their home when the doctors had all but signed his father’s death certificate. But like always, Sam Winchester had beat the odds, taken a breath too many and here they were, almost a year later. 

Emily had known his father for less than a year and yet here she was, sobbing into his shoulder like she was his daughter and not a hospice nurse. 

_That’s dad for you_ , Dean thinks, _easy to love._

He takes one last look at his father, frail and pale and so unlike himself. Sunshine pours through the window, reflecting off of the framed photos haloing his form, a testimony of the long and enormous life of Sam Winchester. 

* * *

  
  


“He would hate this,” Jake says, takes a sip of his tea from a ridiculously oversized mug. Of course Jake Collins Banes is drinking tea at a wake, of fucking course, but then, to Dean’s horror, he starts heating up said tea, with the _glowy fucking eyes thing_ that he always does. 

Dean has to shove him hard because _what the fuck._

Jake turns to him and has the galls to look indignant.

“The Conners are still here, jackass,” Dean says and nods towards his increasingly uncomfortable looking neighbors from a few miles down the road, who are standing out like a sore thumb in their black Sunday church clothes among a sea of flannel and profanity. 

“My tea got cold.”

  
“Then go heat it up like a normal person.”

“Normal huh? Discriminating against witches now? I thought better of you Deano, I get enough shit from these purist hunters already ” Jake announces, but thankfully stops. 

Dean sighs, or groans, he’s not sure, it’s been a long day. A long day of shaking people’s hands, accepting condolences and listening to the ‘ _your father was a great man’_ speech. 

“You’re right,” Dean says. Enough time has passed so that Jake gives him a puzzled look. “He _would_ hate this,” Dean clarifies. 

He’s never seen this many people at his house before. Ever. Not even the time his dad had invited all his hunter friends over for Dean’s 11th birthday party because all of his classmates were a no-show and Dean had finally realized; so what if he was too weird to have normal friends? He bet none of the guys on the football team knew a _single_ werewolf or got to play with Claire fucking Novak’s knife collection. 

Dean has to take a swig of his beer when he feels his throat closing up. 

There’s impossibly more people filing in through the doors and Dean doesn’t recognize half of them. 

The grand, fancy, and crowded event that this day is turning into is so unlike his dad that the uneasiness at the pit of his stomach is starting to shift into full blown guilt now. He would have wanted something small and discrete. Intimate.

“Honestly dude,” Jake says, takes a huge bite of an eggroll, and finishes with his mouth full “you told fucking Garth ‘piping tea’ Fitzgerald and expected word not to get out?” 

_Fucking Garth._ Garth whose mouth seems to get bigger with old age and who’s been alternating between telling outlandish stories about his dad (that are probably true let’s be real) to anyone who will listen, and crying into his wife's shoulder since the fire in the pyre dimmed out. 

Dean’s hands had shook when he’d thrown the matches in and they haven’t stopped since. Jake hasn’t commented on it, just resupplied them with more beer and Dean’s thankful for it. 

Dean sighs, leans his head against the wall that he and Jake are currently crammed in front of - _because there’s no fucking room in his fucking house was it always this small jesus_ \- and closes his eyes. 

He must give off some major woeful vibes then or whatever because Jake nudges him lightly with his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, “I’m betting 90% of these fucks are here ‘cus your dad saved their asses.”

Dean studies the room for a while. It's bustling with sound and laughter. Aunt Anne is busy carrying impossibly more food out from the kitchen and then reprimanding her sister for taking almost one-third of its contents into her own plate. Claire laughs in her face but Dean can see her bloodshot eyes from across the room. 

“I mean, shit, we sure are,” Jake continues and nods towards his dads on the couch. 

“They look like they’re having fun,” Dean says. Max Banes, dad’s unlikeliest of friends, sits on the couch, his husband’s fond eyes on him. Max must be telling a funny story by the looks of it (probably about how they met if experience has taught Dean anything) because he’s built up a big audience around himself, their laughter carrying through the room. Dean can count the number of times he’s seen him without a smile on his face on one hand.

Except, that is, when the topic of his late sister comes up and his eyes go a little hollow. 

Dean thinks it’s what bonded Jake and him together: the heavy ghost of a sibling that both their fathers carried. 

Jake rolls his eyes, “When are they not having fun?” And then as if to prove his point, Max leans in to give his husband an affectionate kiss on the cheek. 

Jake groans. “I’m putting them in a home as soon as I can.”

“Is that gonna be before or after you move out of _their_ home?”

“I’m in a transitional period of my life, dickwad.”

Dean snorts. Thank god for Jake Banes. 

“What I’m trying to say is,” Jake continues, “all of this” he makes a hand movement indicating the ‘ _everything’_ that’s currently happening in the cramped living room, “was inevitable for _Sam. Fucking. Winchester_.” 

The Conners have reached their discomfort level, it seems, they’re making their way to him, or trying to, through the crowd. 

“Our deepest condolences once again, son,” Mr. Conner says. Mrs. Conners gives him a hug and a _call if you need anything, sweetheart_ , and then they’re making their exit from, what is most definitely, the weirdest wake they’ve ever been to. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Jakes says, his eyes glowing, and then there’s steam rising from his mug. 

* * *

Later, when the guests slowly file out, and Dean manages to convince the ones that are left, the ones that matter the most and are giving him worried glances, that yes, he’s fine and no he doesn’t need company, and he definitely doesn’t need a soothing witch massage, thanks very much Jake, he’s left alone in the house. 

The house that, only an hour ago, had seemed so small and cramped and now feels huge and quiet and empty. But it isn’t empty, it’s filled to the brim, every corner of it, with the ghosts of his father and his mother and the time with them that he won’t ever get back. 

Maybe he should have taken Jake up on that offer, he’s getting all dramatic again. 

His first instinct is to turn off the lights, go to his childhood bedroom (that’s become his regular bedroom again in the last year, really) and shove it all down deep, knock out and sleep. 

Screw consciousness. 

But he doesn’t. He sits with it. 

He pours himself some whiskey and sits on his dad’s favorite old squeaky armchair. It looks weird when it’s empty. 

Dean has spent years watching him sit here, looking at his thousand yard stare and wondering what in the world he can do to get a glimpse inside his head for just a moment. 

It faces the window, the long expanse of land and trees outside in view, mom’s old garden that Dean hasn’t had time to fend to, the little birdhouse that Dean had built in third grade still attached to a branch visible beyond the glass. 

If he turns his head slightly to the right though, which his father only ever did when he thought no one was watching, his gaze falls on the mantelpiece, at the gallery of photos displayed on the walls. Most of the people in those photos are gone now. Most of them have always been _gone_ for Dean. 

_Maybe he won't have to sit here and gaze searchingly now,_ he thinks, _Maybe now, when he calls for Dean, the right one will answer._

* * *

He wakes to a high pitched, ear-piercing shrill, vibrating in his ears. 

In his ears _and the whole fucking house_. Literally. It’s shaking with it, the windows quaking, the photos he fell asleep looking at are falling to the floor and shattering in mid air before they can reach the ground. 

He almost falls off the chair himself and only has enough time and sense to reach sweaty palms to his ears and duck under their dining room table, before the giant crystal chandelier meets the ground where his body was a second ago.

 _Mom would be pissed,_ he thinks, absurdly. 

And then, as abruptly as it had started, the noise is gone. 

_What the fuck._

He moves his hands away from his ears and sees blood. That’s gonna have to wait. 

Dean moves in record time, fetches his gun from under the table, checks the perimeters, inspects the wardings, the salt lines ingrained into the flooring, the devils trap, the fucking anti-fairy emblems. 

Sam Winchester was a fucking paranoid. 

The EMF shows fuck all. 

_What the actual fuck._

Dean would think he’d dreamt it all, a grief induced nightmare or some other therapy shit that Gertie was going on about when she was trying to get him to let her stay. He’d think maybe it was a fucking hallucination, except that the living room looks like a hurricane has just passed through it and also because the Winchesters don’t do ‘maybes’. 

He takes out his phone to call Jake. Witch mojo is the last resort because he’s definitely not letting his father’s house be fucking breached or haunted or whatever is happening, a day after his death. What a fucking joke.

A terrifying and thrilling thought briefly crosses his mind before he reminds himself that his dad had a hunter’s funeral. 

“You must be Dean.” 

Dean drops the phone, turns, gun cocked and aimed in the voice’s direction. 

The stranger slowly raises his hands, “forgive me for the intrusion,” he says, “It’s been a long time, and it is not easy to be in this world without a vessel.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean says and then slowly, he feels his own eyes go wide. He looks to the man in the trench coat standing before him and then to his left at the same face staring back at him from a shattered frame on the mantelpiece 

“My name is Castiel,” the man says, “I’m an angel of the lord.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Dean is six when he first learns that his father is a dangerous man._

_It’s Christmastime and when Dean runs out the front door of the house, he’s knee deep in snow and there’s air coming out of his mouth as he breathes._

_“I’m making fog!” he announces as his dad lifts him up, up over his shoulders and then down into the back seat._

_He spends the four hour drive to Jody Mill’s cabin drawing figures on the fogged up backseat window of their old SUV; a snowman and an all-caps ‘Dean’ scribbled next to it that disappears and, to his great astonishment, reappears again on their drive back home. His dad spends an hour patiently explaining condensation and the air’s moisture content and dew point to him, mom’s fond gaze on him the whole time. ‘Nerd,’ she signs afterwards and the sound of their laughter fills the car, until they've driven up into the clearing facing the cabin._

_“They really do grow like weeds, huh?” Jody says, lifting him up into her arms and, to his great horror, giving him a peck on the cheek. “You gonna be taller than your dad next Christmas?”_

_Dean wipes his cheek with a palm of hand and contemplates. If he’s taller than him next Christmas, his dad won’t be able to give him piggyback_ or _airplane rides._

_“Nope,” he decides._

_Dean spends the afternoon in the backyard playing in the snow with a boy named Jake, who he’s only met once and who’s as quiet as the first time he’d seen him._

_“You wanna build a snowman?” he asks. Jake shrugs and just stands there, which is what he’s been doing all day. The adults are inside, the noise of conversation and music increasing progressively, and every time there’s a new sound, Jake sneaks a glance at the backdoor leading into the cabin and then looks back down at his boots._

_“Well what do you wanna do then?” Dean asks._

_He would think that Jake doesn’t know how to speak, except that Dean had greeted him earlier in the house, and after a quick nod from uncle Max, Jake had muttered a quiet ‘hi’ back._

_Jake shrugs again._

_Dean groans. He’d been excited when he’d realized there would be another kid at the cabin to play with, but Jake had spent most of the day sitting quietly on Jody’s squeaky porch swing while Dean built a snow fort and told him about starting first grade. At one point Dean had thrown a snowball at him to get him to play, but Jake had just looked startled and then confused when Dean had tried to explain the logistics of a snowball fight._

_It’s becoming more and more clear that Jake doesn’t wanna be his friend and when a loud noise from inside makes Jake look back at the door again, Dean says, “if you wanna go inside so much, just go ahead.”_

_If Jake would rather hang out with boring adults than play with him, Dean isn’t going to stop him._

_But then Jake turns back to him, his wide eyes, like Dean just said a bad word, and says a firm, “No.”_

_It’s the first concise word Dean’s heard out of him, and it takes him aback._

_“Okay?” Dean says. Jake frowns and sits back down on the swing. He stretches his leg out, his boot making contact with the snow, and then swings the hammock back and forth, leaving trails behind._

_Dean gasps, making Jake jump a little, and says,“I know what we can do!”_

_Jake gives him a puzzled look._

_“Come on,” Dean says, and lays down with his back on the snow, stretches his arms and legs out as far as they will go and starts dragging them back and forth._

_Dean sneaks a quick look at Jake, who looks curious but is trying really hard to not show it._

_Dean’s made three snow angels when Jake appears by his side. He stands above him, tilts his head to the side like Miracle does when he hears someone at the door, and then gingerly lays down next to Dean. He swings his arms back and forth in slow and small, hesitant drags, sneaking quick looks at Dean._

_“You have to move further away so they’ll have bigger wings,” Dean says, and Jake does._

_By the time the sky becomes a dark blue, they’ve built two snowmen, and most of the surface surrounding the cabin (as far as they are allowed to wonder) is covered in snow angels._

_By the time they're fetched back inside, Jake’s still mostly quiet, but isn’t ignoring Dean like before, muttering short responses and when Dean makes a funny face he even laughs a little._

_It’s loud and crowded inside, and after they’ve had their dinner, he and Jake end up huddled by the fireplace away from the noise where the adults are gathered. They’re playing with an old freight train set that Jody’s rummaged out of her garage. “The one I have at home is even bigger,” Dean says, “do you think uncle Max will let you come home with us so we can play with it?” Dean wonders if he should go and ask his parents now. The last time Jake and uncle Max had been to his house, Jake had stayed close to Max and hadn’t even met his eye. This time will be different, Dean thinks._

_Through the doorway to their left, the large dinner table can be seen, garnished with all the Christmas-ey foods that Dean wishes he could have every day._

_The large Chicken roast that Jody had cut into- the first piece had gone to Max, and the second to him and then to everyone else- was now half its size, the salads, potatoes and gravy having been spooned to almost scraps. Dean can see his mom and dad sitting at the far left of the table along with uncle Max, Jody, Claire and Anne. As the night progresses and the more people arrive, however, the group gets bigger, Jody’s small cabin filling with the noise of conversation and music and the flow of beer bottles opening and making their rounds, endless. The usual close and carefully selected group of people that his parents and the Mills normally kept, on that night, double and triple in size._

_Later, when Dean, much to his dad’s disapproval, would get more acquainted with the ins and outs of the world of hunters, he would recognize the tell tale signs of what this night was._ Where you have too many hunters _, he’d learn,_ you have a ticking time bomb of the weary and the paranoid. 

_Jake sits with his knees to his chin and listens to Dean talk about the largest and fastest train being built in Japan, but his attention is split between Dean’s words and the dinner table in view, his gaze moving from the toy train set in front of them to the people gathered around the table; a look in his eyes that Dean won’t comprehend for years to come._

_On the right end, closest to them, four bulky and tall men are sitting close together. Dean doesn’t recognize any of them but they’re speaking the loudest and ever so often, bursting out in laughter, and every time they do, Dean notices Jake give a little shudder and huddle further into himself._

_Dean’s about to offer Jake his turn on the toy remote when one of the four men, the shortest one with a big belly and a blue cap on, staggers away from the group and walks towards the fireplace. He stops, leans heavily on the doorway, and looks down._

_“We just let anyone in here now, huh?” he says. He’s swaying a little, a beer in one hand, and he’s looking down at Jake whose doing his best to keep his gaze down and hugging his knees to his chest._

_The man takes a few steps forward, and Jake’s eyes go wide and Dean thinks he’s shaking, a little._

_“You that witch’s new ward or something?” he asks. Jake doesn’t speak, but Dean sees his breath catch. The man has a brown leather sheath attached to the left side of his jeans that Dean knows holds a knife. He’d found one in the garage once, and his parents had told him that he was too young to go near it._

_“You answer when I’m talkin’ to you, kid.”_

_The man smells like alcohol and he’s dressed like a hunter. Dean’s not sure what a hunter is, but he knows that there are good ones like Jody and Claire and Garth - and sometimes his parents, he thinks - and there're mean ones that dad doesn’t want him around. Dean looks up at the man’s shiny dark eyes and then at Jake’s shaking form and decides that this man is a mean one._

_He stands, moves between Jake and the man._

_“You’re scaring my friend,” he says._

_The man chuckles, “that ain’t your friend kid,” he takes a swig of his beer. “Didn’ your daddy teach you that monsters are for killin’, not befriending?”_

_“He’s not a monster!” Dean exclaims, and he must be too loud because all the heads in the next room turn towards them._

_Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees his dad rise._

_“There a problem here, Jeff?” Jody asks, making her way to them. Uncle Max follows, eyes ‘Jeff’ for a moment and then crouches in front of Max, speaking softly for only him to hear._

_Jeff laughs again, “oh there’s no problem,” he says. By now, the conversation’s attracted everyone’s attention. “Just didn’t realize this was an all inclusive event.”_

_“It ain’t all inclusive,” Claire says, crossing her arms. “It’s a strictly no assholes event so maybe you should book it.”_

_Everyone’s gathered by the fireplace now, mom’s worried glance is on Dean. “are you alright?” she signs. Dean nods._

_Jeff raises his hands defensively, but he’s smirking. “you know damn well what I mean sweetheart. Some lines we shouldn’t be crossin’.”_

_“I know if you call me sweetheart one more time, you’re gonna be crossing through that window,” Claire says and points to the window to their left._

_Jeff’s three friends are huddled behind him now and before Jeff can reply one of them says, “Come on Claire, he’s got a point, doesn’t he?”_

_Claire takes a step forward but this time it’s Anne who replies._

_“Oh you've been trying to make a point all night, I think.”_

_Dean isn’t sure what she means, but he can see that there seem to be two separate groups now, Jeff and his three friends, and everyone else._

_Max has Jake by the hand now, who's huddled behind him all but hugging his leg._

_Max clears his throat, glances over the men thoughtfully and then says, “think it’s best we take off now, thanks for dinner, Jod-”_

_“You stay right there,” Jody says, before Max can take a step “I think I can decide for myself who’s in my own damn house, thanks very much.”_

_Jeff scoffs. “You really gonna do this over some witches, Jodes? After everything?” Jody’s glares at him, eyebrows furrowed but before she can answer, Dean sees his dad step forward._

_“Why don’t we all calm down a bit,” he says. He’s using the voice he gets when he’s trying to get Dean to understand a math problem he’s having trouble with. “How about we do this away from the kids?” he says._

_Jeff gives him a look, his head turning to the side in contemplation. “I don’t know,” he says, “think maybe it’d do the little guy some good to hear this,” Jeff says, and nods in Dean’s direction. “I mean, someone’s gotta teach him to distinguish between his own folk and the freaks.”_

_Dean can see his dad’s eyes shift to something else. He gives a quick nod and then says, “that so?”_

_Jeff’s swaying a little where he stands now, and when he speaks, his words are slurred. “They’re here cuz of you ain’t they?”_

_Jeff’s friends have gone quiet ever since Sam Winchester joined the conversation. Dad doesn’t give him an answer, his expression unreadable. Jeff keeps his gaze , but Dean can see sweat building on his temples. “I’m just saying.” he says._

_“What is it that you’re saying?”_

_“I’m sayin’ you shoulda put a bullet through each of their brains when you’d found 'em’, not fucking rehabilitated 'em’.” He takes a sip from his bottle, wipes his mouth with a sleeve of his plaid shirt and then adds, “Dean Winchester sure would have.”_

_Something shifts in the room then, the tension and weariness that had been building in the room replaced by a sudden and abrupt pause, like time’s been frozen._

_The room is deathly quiet, and even though the music’s still playing in the other room, Dean can swear it feels like it hushes itself down too._

_Dad takes a step forward. Stops in front of Jeff. Jeff’s friends have gone pale, found a new interest in their shoes, it seems, and they're slowly making the distance between themselves and Jeff increasingly apparent._

_“I was a freak too, once, you know,” Dean can see his dad’s lips move, the words come out, but his voice is foreign to his ears. “You should take out that semi you're hiding in your waistband and put a bullet through_ my _brain.” And just like that, like an imaginary whistle has been blown, a bell rung, the conversation is over._

_Jeff’s foot is over the cabin’s threshold when Dean hears his dad again._

_“Oh and Jeff?” He inches towards him until they’re a mere breath away._

_“Don’t let my brother’s name come out of your mouth again,” he says._

_Later, when he’s witnessed vampires run to their nests and demons leave their vessels at the name Sam Winchester, this moment won’t seem significant or noteworthy._

_But it’s in this moment, on a cold Christmas eve with the fire crackling next to him that Dean looks up at the man before him, and sees, for the first time, someone more than his dad._

* * *

“She should be arriving any time now,” Castiel says, and takes a tiny bite of a butter cookie. 

“Oh,” Dean says. For a while there is only the ticking of the grandfather clock - that’s now bent to the side and has lost most of its glass covering- and the crunch of Castiel chewing the cookie. 

Dean gulps down the remainder of the whiskey in his glass like it’s a can of bud light, and leans back in his seat. The room swims around him again at the slight movement of his head, but it’s mild and doesn’t last. 

Castiel had spent the first few minutes of his arrival apologizing profusely for the damage he had caused, and then scurrying clumsily around the room in search of something to tend to Dean’s bleeding ears with while Dean had stared, flabbergasted. He’d come across a placemat tossed on the floor and Dean had let him fuss over him until he’d been able to get his jaw off the floor and find his bearings. Mostly. 

“I’m able to take physical form temporarily,” Castiel had said. “But it cannot last long. Angels can no longer take human vessels, you see. Not since Jack.” 

Right. Jack. Jack as in God. 

His dad had spoken about Jack a whole lot, about how he had changed things for the better and that there was faith to be had now and freedom and a lot of other inspirational stuff that Dean had quickly chucked off to the side as soon as he’d found out that his dad had kind of raised god? Along with his brother and the angel that had just broken into his family home and trashed all his furniture.

When Dean had reassured him that he was fine and that there were more urgent matters, such as why he’d appeared in his house at three in the morning the day after his father’s wake, Castiel had dropped the bloody placemat and nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid it is very urgent.” 

And then he’d gone on a long monologue that Dean’s still not sure he fully grasps. 

He spoke about the power struggle that was currently taking place in heaven, that not all the angels were happy with the new status quo and that ‘something was rotten in the state of Denmark’. He’d paused after the last bit, an expectant gaze turned his way, and when Dean hadn’t reacted, he’d spent a minute explaining to Dean, in great detail, that he was referencing a play by a notable English playwright of the early seventeenth century. 

Somewhere between the topic of time travel and his dad, Dean had gotten out the whiskey. 

Castiel had spoken for a long time, but the combination of injured ( _maybe fucking shattered?_ ) eardrums, the sudden appearance of an angel in the middle of his living room, and the fact that he’d burned his father’s body a couple of hours ago narrowed down the information into the blaring facts that had made his heart skip the fastest. 

An angel by the name of Anaphiel, one of the most loyal of Chuck’s ( _he’s the old god, your father must have told you_ ) creations and his most devoted soldier, had somehow acquired the Stone of Penance, one of the most powerful of Chuck’s weapons and was on a mission to restore things to the old order. Said mission involved going back in time and killing Sam and Dean Winchester. 

Dean had chugged a full glass before his brain had started to process.  
“Why would killing them bring Chuck back to power?” he’d asked, though his mind had provided the answer before Castiel had begun to respond. 

“Surely your father has told you of the role he played in saving the world?” Castiel had said. Dean had wanted to say _no, my father didn’t speak much about his past._

But he knew. Of course he knew. 

It was impossible to be Sam Winchester’s son and not drown in his legacy. 

Even if he had to learn of that legacy mostly from others. 

Castiel had then spent the next ten minutes pacing around the disheveled living room, righting a tilted frame here, picking up a thrown pillow there, complimenting the interior design and generally digressing from the topic. Dean, not having expected to spend the early hours of the morning (or ever) with a fidgety and nervous angel, nor the harrowing migraine building in his skull, had interjected, “What do you need me to do?”

Castiel had shifted his weight from one leg to another, and then sighed, his face pained but resolute. 

“Anaphiel has gained the power to influence the past only through Penance. It’s his link to all of creation. We,” Castiel had said, “do not have such a link. Not anymore. The past cannot be changed.”

“Then how are we supposed to stop him?”

“We cannot,” Castiel had said, “but you can.”

Dean leans his head back against the armchair, taps his fingers on the hard wooden armrest. 

“These,” Castiel says, gingerly holding another butter cookie between forefinger and thumb, “are more delectable than I remember.” 

Dean looks at the platter sitting empty on the small coffee table. 

“Oh, I uh…” Dean says, runs a hand through his hair and wonders if stress related hair loss is possible to occur within hours, “there should be more in the kitchen, I can-”

“Oh, no need,” Castiel says, and then, like he’s rehearsed it, he quickly adds, “but thank you for the offer, that’s very kind of you, Dean.”

“Course,” Dean says. _How is it you can eat when your body holds temporary physical form?_ He’s tempted to ask but in the end decides it would be rude. The clock reads ten past four and Dean is weighing the odds of all of this being a dream when he notices Castiel’s searching gaze on him.

“You’re a lot like your father,” he says, “both in looks, and disposition.” There’s a soft, fond look in his eyes that’s making Dean feel younger than his twenty six years. “No wonder he is so proud of you.”

Dean feels the knot in his stomach tighten and grow. 

From the minute Castiel manifested in the living room, 

the words have been at the tip of his tongue, burning like acid but unwilling to come out.

“Is he,” Dean swallows, “he’s-”

“In heaven?” 

Dean had meant to say, _is he okay?_ The destination he would be taking had never been in question. Rather, saying the words felt too final, like Dean was admitting defeat, setting the truth in stone. 

_My father is dead, resting in heaven._

“Of course,” Castiel says. “Your father is fine, Dean. Though he misses you.”

Dean nods, swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Did he-”

A bright white, pulsating light appears in the middle of the room, the beam radiating so strongly that Dean wonders if he’s gone blind. _Blind and deaf in a single night? that would be one for the books._ Dean feels a warm vibration emitting from the haze and then as fast as it appeared, he feels the heat dim a notch. As the light crackles out, he hears the thump of someone hitting the hardwood floor. 

“Lady, I swear to god-!” Dean hears a familiar voice exclaim and when he opens his eyes, he’s faced with the image of Jake splayed on the floor, in a light t-shirt and pajama pants, a tall, redheaded woman towering over him. She’s wearing an emerald green dress that’s glittering from the remnants of the white light. Her eyes are downcast on Jake, who’s currently cursing a storm, but her back and neck are straight. 

“Jake?” Dean exclaims. 

Jake halts the expletives, twists his head a full one-eighty from where he’s landed on the floor and then his eyes go comically wide. “Dean!?”

Dean makes his legs move from their spot, extends a hand to Jake, who takes it and wipes himself off. 

“You okay?” Dean asks. 

“Oh I’m great, whyever do you ask?” Jake’s eyes lift to Dean’s left ear, at the remnants of dried blood still caked there. His eyes dart around the room, his back straightening out a notch, and though he keeps the laid back exterior, Dean can already see the cogs moving in his brain, his eyes surveying the room from Castiel to the woman, assessing the danger. 

“At least I was,” he says, “till Jean Gray over here kidnapped me.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” the woman says. Her voice is higher than Dean had expected. “I’m only borrowing you, darling.”

Dean turns to Cas and tries to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t tell me you’d be involving my friends.” 

“I didn’t know,” Castiel says, stern eyes on the redhead. 

“Oh, you didn’t expect me to accomplish such a herculean task all by my lonesome did you?” she says, her words carry a ting of the dramatics, exemplified by her Scottish accent. “My talent in witchcraft may be unparalleled, but heavy is the head that wears the crown. I'm a busy bee, you see.”

Castiel looks unconvinced, a sour, almost constipated look on his face. “Rowena.” 

“Castiel,” Rowena says, in an imitation of what’s likely supposed to be Castiel’s voice. “I’ll only need him to keep the door open, that’s all. I figured he’d prefer to have a friend nearby.” 

“The door?” Jakes says, and then like it’s just hit him, he turns to Dean, wide eyed. “Castiel? Like the-” 

Dean nods. 

Rowena ignores him, her green eyes turn to Dean, and her face breaks into a full-toothed smile. She clasps her hands together and eyes Dean from head to toe, not unlike a zoo animal. 

“Oh my,” She says, takes a few steps towards him, her long dress trailing behind her. “Oh look at you, just as tall as I expected,” she says, circling around him, her high heeled shoes clicking away on the hardwood floor. She lifts a hand, lays it gently over his cheek. 

“And just as handsome,” she says, her voice honey-sweet and then winks at Dean. 

Dean blinks. 

She walks around the room, the trail of her dress making it seem like she’s gliding on air. _Or maybe she is_ , Dean thinks, _why the fuck not, at this point._

“I’m sure Samuel has told you _all_ about me,” she says. She picks up a cracked framed photograph off the floor, the one of mom on her fortieth birthday. She studies it for a moment, taps a manicured finger to her chin, tilts her head from left to right like she’s trying to make a decision, and then puts it gently on the mantelpiece. She turns back to him and it takes Dean a minute to figure out that she’s expecting a response. 

“Oh...he uh,” Dean turns to Jake, who looks less shocked at the turn of events than he should be but is otherwise no help. “He’s...told me about a lot of people,” Dean says, and then because the woman gives off the impression that she has a tendency of making people combust at will, he smiles and adds, “it’s been a long day, I’m sure it’s just slipped my mind ” 

“Hm,” she says. She picks up another photo, one of his father, uncle and, to Dean’s misfortune, Castiel. “Well it looks like he’s told you all about this one,” she says and taps on the glass. 

Dean swallows. 

“As is expected,” Castiel pops in, matter of factly. “Sam and I have always had a strong relationship of comradery. We’ve bonded, deeply on many occasions.” 

They spend an hour filling Jake in on the plan, much to Dean’s disapproval, but when you have an angel and an all powerful witch (who also happens to be the queen of hell apparently, why not?) there’s not much Dean’s able to do. 

After he’s had a glass of whiskey of his own, Jake shifts back in his chair, puts his left foot over his right knee.

“How will Anaphiel going back in time change the present,” he says, “you said the past can’t be changed.”

In the hour that she’s been there, Rowena has turned his living room into a makeshift witch’s den, the dinner table lined with the ingredients that they’ll be needing for the spell. Dean’s packing a bag like he’s going on a standard hunt and not on a freaking time heist. 

“He’s absorbed all the power that Penance has to give. With it,” Castiel says, “he can influence the past. Though it’ll likely be the last thing he does.”

Dean gives him a puzzled look. 

“Anaphiel may be more loyal than most,” Castiel says, “But he is an ordinary angel. No match to the power of Penance. Now that he's wielded it, he won’t be able to sustain it, and his being will expire.” 

Dean nods. Castiel’s angel blade is tucked safely in the inside of his jacket. 

“The deterioration has already begun,” Castiel goes on. “If we are lucky, he’ll be even further weakened by the travel. You’ll have an easier time of slaying him.” Dean tries not to think about the ‘ _if_ ’ portion of the sentence and nods. 

“Alright then,” Jake says, slaps his palms on his knees and grins. “So it’s more of an Avengers: Endgame scenario than a Back to the Future shindig, got it.”

“It’s actually neither,” Castiel mumbles, but Jake ignores him. “More importantly,” he says, “will I or will I not be able to hook up with a young Keanu Reeves?” 

“Jake,” Dean says. 

“After we kill T-1000, relax.”

“No, I’m afraid you won’t be able to have sexual intercourse with anyone,” Castiel says, in the same tone he says everything else.

“Jeez, tough crowd,” Jake says. 

“He means you won’t be going, sweetheart,” Rowena says, and goes back to pouring the _whateveritisslime_ into her giant bowl. 

Jake looks at Dean, and then back to Castiel.

“Come again?” 

“Dean will be making the trip alone,” Castiel says. 

Jake's eyebrows lift. “Like hell he is.”

“Jake-”

“You’re not going alone,” he says, rising from his seat. “Y'all didn’t _apparition_ me here in my fucking PJ’s in the ass crack of dawn to have me be a sitting duck.”

“It’s a bloodline spell,” Rowena says, “now shush and come help me with what you’re here for.”

Jake opens his mouth, closes it again, understanding dawning on his face. 

It had taken Dean a long while to make Castiel finally spill the words. _The spell requires a blood connection._

Dean, Sam Winchester’s only son, and the last living Winchester, had won the jackpot. 

Dean gives Jake an ‘it’s okay’ smile that doesn’t take effect and the conversation is dropped.

Once Jake’s done with his 'Jake brooding session' and changed into some of Dean’s clothes, Castiel clears his throat.

“There’s one more thing we’ll be needing,” he says. “It will lead you to Anaphiel.”

“What is it?”

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, searching, and when he opens them, there’s a soft smile on his face. He turns his head to the left, at the hallway leading to the two bedrooms. “He would have kept it close.”

Dean takes the few steps down the hallway, stops at his parents' bedroom door and pauses. The nob feels like led when he turns it and when he enters the air in his lungs is scarce. 

Dean hasn’t been here in over a month. When dad’s condition had really taken a turn, they’d moved him to the living room and Dean had spent most nights on the couch to be close when he was needed. He’d become so accustomed to making himself small enough for it that when he'd laid down in his own bed that first night after, it had taken all but five minutes for him to give up on sleep. 

The room is neat, the bed well made to almost military perfection, likely from the last time he'd been well enough to make it. His dad had hated spending time in this room after mom had died and more than once Dean had found him sleeping on the couch in the weeks after. 

The room is immaculately clean, aside from a t-shirt that’s left on the side of the bed, probably where he’d left it. Dean takes the soft material in his hands and sits on the bed. There’s a framed photo of all three of them on the nightstand, and as Dean looks at it, the idea of seeing his father again dawns on him like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t get enough time to dwell. There’s a bright light coming out of the small drawer and he has to squint his eyes when he opens it before his sight adjusts and the light dims out. Dean picks up the amulet in careful hands, feels the weight of it, the warmth cooking. He’s seen the thing only twice in his life and all he knows about it is that it belonged to his uncle, and that dad had gotten a hollow look in his eyes when Dean had asked about it. 

Later when it's almost time, Castiel says, “If you pray to me, I’ll be able to hear you,” he pauses and then adds, “If we are lucky.” And if that isn’t the most reassuring shit. Rowena’s mixing stuff into her cauldron thing and if Dean has ever made Harry Potter jokes about Jake he takes it all back because this lady takes the cake, any day. 

“You okay?” Jakes says. Castiel and Rowena are arguing about something that Dean’s brain isn’t really processing, but he and Jake have a minute to themselves. 

“What?” he says, “Yeah, I’m fine.” Jake doesn't look convinced and okay fine maybe the initial shock of the _whattheactualfuckisgoingon_ has faded now and progressed into the _holy shit I’m gonna see my dead dad maybe_ but Dean gets to have a little freakout if he wants okay?

“What if I fail,” he says, “I mean I’ve never killed an angel? Let alone an angel on steroids!”

“You’re not gonna fail, okay? Jake says, “besides, wings over there said the guy’s probably gonna be leveled down.”

“Yeah, ‘probably’ is the key here.” Dean’s been informed that he won’t be taking a bag with him and is in the process of shoving whatever he can into his pockets and isn't that just awesome. 

“Listen, I’m gonna be there with you, okay?” Jakes says and when Dean raises his eyebrows he adds, “I mean like, in spirit. And also here. With her,” Jake turns to Rowena near the table, flipping through an old looking spell book. 

“Hey, you think your dad and her ever...you know?”

“Oh my god,” Dean takes Jake’s glass of whiskey and downs it. 

“Before your mom, of course!” Jake quickly adds. 

“Definitely not an image I needed in my head, man.”

“I mean, she is kinda hot,” Jake says. “You know, in a milfy way.” Dean turns to him. Jake’s gaze lingers on Rowena for longer than Dean’s comfortable with. 

“Jake,” Dean says.

“Hm?” 

“Don’t hook up with the queen of hell.”

Jake smiles and like always, his distraction's worked, Dean takes a breath.   
“What do I say to him?” Dean says, though it comes out in a whisper. Jake lays a light hand on his shoulder, his eyes on him. Jake’s eyes have always looked too old, too deep and too full, even when they were kids. Dean takes another deep breath and Jake doesn’t need to say another word. 

When everything’s ready and the amulet lies snug around Dean’s neck underneath his shirt, Castiel clears his throat.

“I’m sorry you have to do this,” he says, again. 

“It’s fine Cas, you don’t have to apologize."

“Well,” he says, “I’m not sure your father will agree if he ever finds out.” There’s genuine worry in his eyes and Dean almost chuckles, imagines his dad’s protective and worried eyes, him giving Castiel a piece of his mind up in heaven and feels warmth grow in his chest. 

“Well, let’s hope it works and he doesn’t have to find out,” Dean says. 

“Yes,” Castiel says and then, “well, if it doesn’t he likely won’t find out,” he says. “And the world as we know it will likely not exist.”

The room is silent for a moment, and all four of them glancing at one another. 

“You will cease to exist, of course,” he adds to Dean.

“Of course,” Dean says. 

“Ohhkay,” Jake says, claps his hands together. "Let's maybe ease down on the doomsday talk."

Castiel's eyes go wide. "I am sure you will succeed,” he says, quickly, and then gives Dean a tight smile. 

Dean takes a deep breath. He takes the blade off the table and makes a small cut on his arm, lets the blood drip down into the cauldron, watches it make a swirl of brown that sizzles and bubbles. He wraps a piece of cloth around the wound and steps back. Rowena and Jake stand on either side of him and start the incarnation. As the golden lightning-like crack appears mid air in the middle of his parent’s living room, Dean thinks of the grasp of his father’s cold hand.

The portal widens, a bright white light shining through. Dean steps through. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr!  
> [augusteofarles](https://augusteofarles.tumblr.com/)


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